“Hey, I thought I told you not to bring that hoss in here,” shouted Bill, the bartender. “You gonna mess up my place!”

“Hell, no,” said Short. “He’s a robot, remember? He ain’t gonna crap on yer floor, which is more than you can say for half the reg’lar customers.” He leapt into the saddle, then reached a hand down for Phule. “C’mon, Cap’n, we gonna go huntin‘!”

Phule took the proffered hand, leapt up behind the cowboy, and in a moment they were out the door and on their way.

The spaceport stagecoach dropped Sushi and Do-Wop off in the middle of a small town, not much more than a crossroads in the dusty landscape. The sun had set beyond the western hills, and a few lights-dim ones, by the standards of most advanced worlds-provided the only illumination on the rustic scene.

Luckily, one of the lights was outside a building that bore a sign with the word hotel, and the two legionnaires made a beeline for it. There, on a bench on the plank sidewalk, lounged an old codger smoking an imitation corncob pipe. “Hi, there,” said Sushi. “Can you tell me the name of this town?”

“Damfino,” said the man, not bothering to remove the pipe from his mouth.

“What, are you stupid?” snapped Do-Wop, who had not enjoyed the stagecoach ride at all. “Don’t you even know the name of this dump?”

This time the codger took his pipe out of his mouth. “I said, ‘Damfino,’ pilgrim,” he said.

“Yo, turkey-face,” Do-Wop growled. He brushed past Sushi, who was pointing upward and rolling his eyes meaningfully. “Are you tryin‘ to get smart with me?”

“No, ye gol-durn idjit,” said the codger, glaring at Do-Wop. “I’ve lived here all my life-ask anybody. And Damfino’s the name of the town.” He pointed to the sign above him, which on closer inspection Do-Wop could read in its entirety: damfino hotel.

“I tried to tell you,” Sushi said to a sullen Do-Wop, as he opened the door to their hotel room. He plopped down on one of the beds, and said, “Anyhow, now that we’re here, we’ve got to figure out where Beeker’s staying, get word to the captain so he can go find him, and then our job will be done.“

“Why don’t you just hack the Net to find out where he’s staying?” asked Do-Wop. “I bet it’s there, if you went lookin‘.”

“Not enough computer power,” said Sushi, patiently. “If I had the captain’s Port-a-Brain, or the mil-spec equipment I have back on Zenobia, no sweat-I’d probably have it before bedtime. With what I’ve got here, we might not find out anything useful until the captain and Beeker leave the planet, and their computer registers as it goes out through customs.”

Do-Wop nodded. “So you could find the captain if you had the captain’s computer, but we don’t know where he is, so we can’t get it, so we can’t find him. Ain’t that just the way it always works? Stinker.”

‘That’s about the size of it,“ said Sushi. ”If either the captain or Beeker would disable their computer’s security, we might be able to figure out where they are. But that’s about as likely as one of them learning to breathe methane.“

Do-Wop considered. “Hows about we spread a rumor that the security is really a bug, so they turn it off?”

Sushi shook his head. “Won’t work,” he said at last. “Even if the captain and Beeker fell for it, they’d get too frustrated trying to get around the safeguards. A Port-a-Brain’s security is set so a casual user can’t just override it. That’s part of what you’re paying for.”

“Well, I ain’t payin‘ for it, and if I could, there’d be a bunch of other things I could use the money for,” said Do-Wop. “But I get your point. These rich guys don’t get their hands dirty-they think there’s somethin’ wrong, they call some rent-a-geek to fix it.”

“Which would be fine if I’m the guy they’d call,” said Sushi. “But Port-a-Brain probably has a repair shop on any world big enough to have electricity. Which even includes this faux-rustic would-be paradise.“

“They hide it pretty good,” said Do-Wop, looking around the hotel room. In fact, the designers had made every effort to give the room the appearance of something from before the electronic age. Electrical outlets were concealed behind wooden panels, as was the tri-vee set. The lighting fixture gave off a flickering yellowish illumination that was a fair simulation of a kerosene lantern-although they hadn’t taken realism to the point of simulating the smell of kerosene (which few of the guests would have recognized, in any case).

The locals had plenty of modern machinery, although most of it was well hidden in kitchens, back rooms, and other areas where tourists rarely intruded. Robots were configured to resemble mules, oxen, and other “authentic frontier creatures.” Cut ‘N’ Shoot’s founders were sensible businessmen, not members of some cult of perverse self-denial. Even the most authenticity-hungry tourists weren’t usually ready to leave behind basic conveniences. You might as well have asked them to do without their personal entertainment and communications devices.

Sushi looked around and shrugged. “It doesn’t look as if there’s much else to do here,” he said. He opened his duffel and took out his pocket computer. “I might as well run a search and see if I get lucky. Maybe this planet’s smaller than I think.”

“Can’t be any smaller than I think,” said Do-Wop, but Sushi ignored him. He was already at work.

The group in Phule’s office was the entire command cadre of Omega Company. Lieutenant Rembrandt presided, sitting behind Phule’s desk. To her left sat Lieutenant Armstrong, and to her right Flight Leftenant Qual, the representative of their Zenobian hosts. First Sergeant Brandy and Supply Sergeant Chocolate Harry sat in two chairs facing the three officers. Unseen, but present via comm, was Mother, who had announced the bad news that was the reason for the emergency meeting.

“All right, people,” said Rembrandt. “As we all know, Captain Jester is off-planet and can’t get back fast enough to make any difference. The ball’s in our court. This can’t be the worst thing that’s happened to this company. We’ve dealt with mobsters, monsters, revolutionaries, robots, and enough brass hats to ground a starship. So we ought to be able to deal with a surprise visit from the Legion’s commanding general, right?”

“Yeah, oughta be a snap,” said Chocolate Harry, the huge Supply sergeant. He spread his hands, with a convincing display of nonchalance. “We doin‘ our jobs, right? We keepin’ Zenobia safe for the Zenobians.”

“Demanding your clemency, large one, but Zenobians are doing a great deal toward that end,” said Flight Left-enant Qual. He looked like a diminutive dinosaur- perhaps an allosaurus-dressed up like a military officer for some costume tri-vee, and his language regularly defied the translator’s efforts to make his statements into comprehensible English. But he had a fine military mind, and he was afraid of nothing.

“The sergeant doesn’t mean we want to take credit for your efforts, Qual,” said Rembrandt. “What he means is that we’re doing the job we came for, and that ought to be enough for the general. Which would be true, except that we all know that General Blitzkrieg has a major grudge against this company and especially against our captain.” .

“That’s an understatement,” said First Sergeant Brandy. “Fact is, the general’s going to be looking for reasons to shove this company right back in the shitcan it was in before Captain Jester came here, and if he can’t find any, he’ll make some up. Looking at the crazy people we’ve got here, it’s not going to be much of a stretch for him to find ‘em. Don’t get me wrong, Remmie-I love this company, but we damn sure have to admit we’re never gonna win any spit-’n‘-polish contests.“ She gestured at the others in the room. With only two of the five present wearing complete uniforms, her point was obvious.

Rembrandt responded with a wry grin. “We’d have enough trouble filling out the entry forms,” she admitted. “Still, we’ve got a good thing here, and I think we all agree it’s worth protecting. The question is, what can we do to keep the general from destroying everything the captain’s built up?”